


A Friend of Ours

by cigarettesandalcohol



Category: Mafia (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Aggression, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Eddie Scarpa being a disaster, Eddie is a trainwreck let's be honest about that, Gun Kink (i guess?), Henry is a rat (sorry for that), In this Story at Least, M/M, Past Character Death, Swearing, Threats of Violence, i guess, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27060439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cigarettesandalcohol/pseuds/cigarettesandalcohol
Summary: "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Scarpa.""Don't call me Mr. Scarpa. My friends call me Eddie."
Relationships: Eddie Scarpa/Henry Tomasino
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15





	1. 27. 7. 1951

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I seem to love lonely, sad alcoholics that work for the mafia, lol. While I feel like Paulie would be the happy and then maybe depressed drunk friend, Sam would still be kinda quiet (maybe a bit more cuddly, idk?), Eddie Scarpa from Mafia II would definitely be the happy-gone-crazy drunk friend. He would start off by being charming and funny, then go overboard with his drinking and suddenly he's beating up people, screams at them, and is angry at the whole world. Well, we kinda got to see that in the brothel when he started screaming at that girl when she corrected him in Chapter 7 of the story of Mafia II. Plus it is said in the Frankie Potts files that Scarpa has an alcohol problem.  
> Also, in Joe's Adventures, he makes a claim that he doesn't want to see the torturing of his and Rocco's victim just because he doesn't want to ruin his new suit with blood, but when Rocco forces him to watch anyway he genuinely looks anxious and sick.  
> I just wish there was more about these two characters (together).  
> Also, I'm not saying that Henry was a rat (I love him), I just think that would make his character even more interesting than if it was just a lie an excuse to have him killed.
> 
> Feedback is welcome! :)

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Scarpa."

"Don't call me Mr. Scarpa. My friends call me Eddie." He said it incidentally, not even raising his eyes from the whiskey glass in front of him. Only then he waved towards the chair next to Vito. "And take a seat, Henry."

He wasn't always 'Eddie'. His full name was Edoardo, which he despised. He might have been Edoardo at school but he'd be damned if he could actually remember anything from school at all. Ever since he joined his friends in taking small-time jobs back in Chicago that usually comprised of delivering messages, keys, and information in between the various people involved in smuggling of liquor from the north, he's been 'Eddie'. There was no room for long names with more than two syllables and everyone around him was called Frankie, Jamie, or Sal anyway. He couldn't go back to being Edoardo Scarpa when he became a regular attendant of the smuggling itself, finding places for undisturbed handovers near the Canadian border and getting the deals successfully done. _Edoardo Scarpa_ , the kid of the Sicilian immigrants, was left in the classroom of a poorly financed catholic school. _Eddie Scarpa_ spent every other night in one of the unofficial watering holes before a deal gone wrong made him skip the city and move to Empire Bay, where the network of people working for the smuggling business was just as close to the Canadians as to the Chicago crew. Carlo Falcone appreciated his experience, quickly turning him into his right-hand man, and so did Don Morretti himself. They called him Eddie as well, and he made a vow to never go back to anything that would remind him of his childhood.

"So, you're Vito's friend?"

"Yes, we've known each other for a few years. He spent most of the time behind the bars though."

Vito rolled his eyes, " _Madonn'_!", but Eddie had to laugh. Henry's face remained calm as if he wasn't even aware of the joke he's just said. He wasn't like Joe who would join him in a guffaw immediately. Henry seemed to have class and a sense of decency Barbaro didn't possess; and that was good. His suit was impeccable and he just looked like one of those lucky motherfuckers who got everything in their lives handed to them on a silver plate; except his face that betrayed a rougher history. His eyes lacked the lazy and careless neglect of those who _actually_ had everything handed to them on a silver plate; instead, there was determination and hunger.

Eddie felt like he could count on him straight away. "We need to take care of something. Well - _someone_. I suppose you know Leo Galante?"

* * *

"Is it done?"

"Yes."

There was no further information, and Eddie looked up at Henry, demanding clear answers.

"He was able to escape," Tomasino said, sitting down at Eddie's table without a permit. The sole act of something as daring shocked Eddie. He wasn't used to people acting like that with him. Even Joe, who would always pride himself in being honest and straightforward, used to be all respectful and wary in the first days. This motherfucker just waltzed inside, took a chair, and sat down, all while saying his mission was a failure.

"What happened?"

"Galante's gone. Everything looked left behind in a hurry."

"Fuck that old bastard!"

Henry reached in his pocket, pulled out a cigarette from a pack, and lit it. "I let the guys set his house on fire," he said calmly after the first puff.

His cool and collected manners of both moving and speaking fascinated Eddie. He's never seen a man ooze such confidence in a moment like this when his first contract failed and he should be worried about his future. Tomasino just crossed his legs and seemed to pay more attention to his cigarette than to Eddie.

"Good."

"There was nothing else we could do. By now, his house should be looking like an ashtray. If nothing else, it should make him understand the message. But the word probably got to him that there's something going on and he packed his bags and left."

"You don't seem too worried about that."

"Look." Henry took the cigarette between his fingers and licked his lips. "I know I did all that could be done. I'm not going to worry about the rest. You'd get to the same result with anyone else on this job."

The stern look on Henry's face remained there. "Fine," Eddie said, unable to look away from Henry's persuasive eyes. "If you didn't leave any evidence behind, this could be the beginning of your new work."

"Thank you."

"Now have a drink with me. I'm paying." He didn't wait for an answer and waved at the bartender. "Hey, Jack - bring me another glass."

"I don't really drink this early - "

The bartender brought a second glass immediately, muttering a respectful 'Sir' towards Scarpa in the process. "Now you do." Eddie poured some whiskey from the bottle that's been losing its content since early morning. " _Salute_!" They both took a sip of their drinks. "Where are you from, Henry?"

"Sicily."

"Oh, the old country?"

"Yes."

"My family came from there. My parents. I was born in Chicago. Would you believe I've never been to Sicily?"

Henry shrugged. "There's not much to do there anyway."

Eddie looked amused by his lack of enthusiasm. "How come you know Vito, I thought he was only friends with stupid loudmouths?"

"Is that about Joe?"

"Good, so you know him too. You know what we should do? We should go someplace to celebrate tonight - "

" _Celebrate_?"

"The old fucker's outta town. What's there not to celebrate?"

"Well, the original contract was a hit on him - "

"Jesus fucking Christ, first you screw it up and then you almost pride yourself in it! I just want to get to know you better, that's all. If you fuck up one more contract you'll be leaving feet first. But if I like you enough to cover up for your missteps, then you might have a long career ahead. Look at Joe. The guy's got half a brain but knows how to make friends and keep their trust."

Tomasino nodded. Being threatened with murder this early into his new job didn't look positive; on the other hand, he couldn't tell how serious the threat was. Eddie must have had a couple of drinks on him already. And the opportunity to work directly with and for the Falcone family underboss surely wasn't going to last long if he didn't try to gain his trust. It could be once in a life chance. Working for Eddie would get him closer to Carlo Falcone, and that itself was a good enough reason to try and be friendly with Scarpa.

"So - I won't ask you again. You wanna go out and celebrate tonight?"

"Of course." Henry tried his best to sound at least somewhat convinced.

"You know the _Garden of Eden_?"

"I've been there a few times."

"Good man. You know who's the owner?"

Henry looked him straight in the eyes and shrugged. "I haven't been there for a few months now."

"You're looking at him."

Henry's expression didn't change.

"I'll take you there. You'll be my guest tonight."

* * *

Henry was the one driving back from the _Garden of Eden_. Eddie couldn't remember when exactly did he give him the keys.

"Hey, did I - did I tell you to drive?"

"It's safer."

"We could have - taken a taxi or something - "

"I can manage."

"You don't drink much, do you?" Eddie sneered.

"Not when I need to get home." Henry kept his eyes on the road and his voice was just as calm as a few hours ago, in contrast to Eddie's hoarse and loud one.

"You don't need to go home - we'll stop somewhere - get more drinks - and more girls - "

"I assume Mrs. Scarpa wouldn't be happy about that."

"Mrs. _what_? The only Mrs. Scarpa I know - was my mother." He raised the bottle towards the car roof. "God Bless her. Me and married? Fuck that."

"Sorry then."

"For what? For the fact that no chick is ready to handle this - " He gulped more of his drink. "My cock and my booze!" Henry glanced at him, not sure how serious Eddie was about that, but when he saw him slumped in his seat, grinning like an idiot with his drunken red face, gulping the liquor straight from the bottle and the liquor running down his chin, he could understand why there was no Mrs. Scarpa. Who would want to be married to _this_?

"It's just unusual for me - "

"What's unusual?"

"We only met in the morning."

"What's fucking unusual about that? You don't trust me? I'm your boss now and if I tell you to go and have a drink with me then you're fucking going to have a drink with me."

"I didn't know that working for Falcone meant to become an alcoholic."

"Hey, are you trying to fucking make me mad? You'd go and kill a man I told you to murder but you won't have a drink with me?"

"One of us has to be responsible."

"I hate you already. Where the fuck does Vito get his friends? One worse than the other."

"Eddie, you need to tell me where exactly you live."

"Calvin Street. A big fucking house. Some of those...flowers and trees and all that shit in front of it."

"I suppose that's how all of those houses look."

"It's all the fucking same, right? I hate it. Fucking suburban houses. Some people are starving and other people are living in these fucking palaces."

"Aren't you one of those people - "

"Ow, shut up."

Calvin Street was one of the long and narrow streets of the neighborhood that looked like it was built especially for the rich middle class; all of its houses looked modern and expensive.

"Which one?" Henry asked, slowing the car down. 

"There - behind the fucking crossroad. Yeah. That one. They all look the same, don't they?"

"It's a nice neighborhood," Henry concluded as he parked in front of the said house.

Eddie hiccuped and covered his mouth with his free hand. In the other one, he was still grasping the half-empty bottle of whiskey which he brought from the brothel. Henry quickly exited the car and ran to help Eddie with getting out. Scarpa was an absolute wreck by then, holding onto his whiskey for dear life, tumbling out of the car like a sack of potatoes. He immediately bent forward and puked all over the lawn. Henry stepped away just in time.

"Fucking hell - " Eddie stumbled, leaning back against the car. "Who paid for the drinks?"

Henry watched his new boss' groggy and swollen face, unsure whether the question was serious. He clenched his teeth, trying to _unsee_ the way Scarpa just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand - the one he was still holding the whiskey in. The sound and stench of puke made his own stomach turn. "The drinks were on the house. You told the guy who came with the bill you'd shoot his head off if he kept asking for the money."

Eddie looked puzzled for a moment and Henry knew there was no way he could remember that moment, but then he burst out laughing hysterically. "I own the fucking place! And that bastard wants me to pay! Should have fucking cut his head off a long time ago - "

Henry avoided commenting on the way Eddie violently threatened to kill every single member of his own staff at the gentlemen's club should they keep on bothering and disrespecting him earlier that night. He wrapped his hand swiftly around Eddie's waist and gently pushed him towards the main entrance of his house. "Look, Eddie, I really appreciate the night out - "

"Hey hey hey, you're not going anywhere. This bottle won't drink itself."

"Eddie, I - "

"And open the fucking door!"

"I don't have keys."

"You can steal car keys but not these?" He reached for the keys in his pocket and started his miserable attempt at unlocking the front door.

"I really think it's time - "

"Just come in."

Scarpa's house looked exactly as Henry would have guessed while looking at its owner - it was a prime quality location and lot, with a bungalow which had to be built in the past year or two. The house itself looked modern and was furnished with what had to be high-quality furniture - but there was a lack of order everywhere Henry looked; all the side tables and wardrobes and carpets looked thrown together in a very unorganized manner as if someone bought a whole collection and then just randomly threw all the pieces of furniture together with an older collection. Apart from that, there were things everywhere - piles of clothes and papers could be found on tables and floor alike, one of the lights didn't work and Henry noticed a number of glasses and bottles everywhere as if being subtle didn't mean anything in this household.

After all, the house looked exactly what Henry imagined it would look like, after knowing Eddie for just one day.

"Well - here we are." Eddie threw the keys on the floor, probably not even aiming anywhere in particular.

"I should go get a cab - "

"You leave when I tell you to leave."

Henry watched as Eddie stumbled his way to the kitchen sink, placed the bottle on the counter, turned the tap on, and stuck his face straight under the stream of water. He could only wonder how could this wreck of a man be responsible enough to run Falcone's business. Was this a regular day at work for him? Henry was used to drinking, he and his friends would often spend their night in various bars and restaurants around the city but they would never cross a certain line that was preventing them from doing anything stupid in a state of intoxication, anything that could potentially threaten the family or any of its members. Getting too drunk to keep one's mouth shut was prohibited, as well as causing unnecessary alarm by provoking bar fights or causing any trouble that could lead to police involvement. Henry wondered what would Eddie do had he not been accompanying him tonight. Would he fall asleep somewhere in the brothel? Or drive back home in this state, crashing into a wall somewhere? The family surely couldn't afford to lose one of its important members due to his recklessness. Luca Gurino was no angel but he had enough sense to not risk anything, especially when the tension around the city was high; he would always carry a gun and keep a man or two near to protect him if necessary. Scarpa didn't look like he would be able to even recognize the danger and judging by his shaking clumsy hands with which he was trying to regulate the stream of water and wash his face, he could easily injure himself rather than the hypothetical intruder.

Well, if Eddie Scarpa was the weak link of the family, maybe it was best to stick with him.

"Oh, fuck," Eddie gasped, pulling his face away from the stream and turning the tap off. "Get me two glasses."

Henry hesitated for a moment. Did Eddie forget they only met today and that he's never been in his house before? Was it just a test? Or was he genuinely asking him - or, more precisely, ordering him - to find two glasses somewhere in the kitchen?

"Are you deaf?" He opened the bottle of whiskey and turned to Henry. "Fucking move your ass - "

Henry didn't lose any more time; he made three quick steps towards the counter and started opening random top cabinets. One with tables, one with various decorative cans, finally one with glasses - He grabbed two and handed them to Eddie. The drops of water were pooling on over his lips; Henry was so close he could watch water still dripping from Eddie's jaw and chin. He took a step back, deducing he was standing _too_ close. "Fucking shithole, this - " Eddie mumbled, pouring the drinks. He pushed one of the glasses towards Tomasino. 

"Cheers."

Henry drank the whole glass; praying for Eddie to either prompt a new subject of conversation or let him leave. He's never seen a man drink so much just to get into a state of absolute misery, disgust, and hate. The atmosphere turned chilly in the span of minutes, seconds even, and he had a feeling things could only get worse now. Eddie was a good companion in the bar, he was fun, telling jokes and seemed relaxed with the two of his 'favorite girls', as he called them, but then something changed with a snap of fingers and his jovial nature was gone. Now he was a blabbering drunkard who seemed pissed off by everything. Henry felt like leaving would be the only appropriate thing to do now. He's brought Eddie home, that was the most he could do now.

"Why the fuck did you come here anyway?" Eddie sounded genuinely curious, which left Henry bewildered.

" _What_? I drove you home from the _Garden of Eden_."

"Oh, that was _tonight_?" Eddie furrowed his eyebrows and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fuck - "

"I really think you should go to sleep - "

"Fuck off - "

"It's been a long day and I want to go home."

" _I said fuck off_!" Eddie might have seemed sluggish in everything he did in the past few minutes, but he pulled out his revolver with a surprising spring in the move of his hand, and he held it aimed right at Tomasino's head.

Henry gulped, laying his empty glass slowly on the counter. "Okay - calm down," he said in a conciliatory approach. He let go of the glass and slowly, very slowly raised his hands. "Put the gun away."

"Who the fuck do you think you are? Telling me what to do?"

"It's fine - just put the gun away."

"You fucking scared now? Fucking tough guy, huh?"

"Eddie - we were in a bar together, had a good laugh, now it's time to go home - go to sleep - " Henry could only hope his voice wasn't unsure and that his hands weren't shaking. To die now by the hand of Eddie Scarpa, who might not even remember this in the morning, would be the worst possible outcome. Why didn't he just leave immediately? Now his whole mission could be ruined, all just because Eddie drank a bit too much.

"You're all the fucking same," Eddie sneered, taking a step closer. Henry didn't dare to move. He concluded it might be wisest to just stop existing in the moment - let his consciousness wander elsewhere, let his body and soul almost part, and not feel the development of the situation. It worked when he was first questioned by the police, and it _almost_ worked when his brother admitted to him that he had been contacted by the FBI. "Fucking honorable guys with their suits and brains and ties to the old country. You say one word about the old country and everyone can shit themselves."

Henry closed his eyes as he felt the barrel of the gun press against his skull. Was this what made Eddie mad? The fact that he was born in the United States and wasn't as much Sicilian as some of the other guys? "I worked my way up the ranks like anyone else - " Henry said quietly, trying to not move his mouth and face muscles.

"You don't like it so much like this, do you?" 

Henry could tell that Eddie's grasp of the gun was very loose and that his hands were shaky; he still pushed away the idea of attempting to wrestle him and get the gun out of his hand by force. Eddie could easily pull the trigger by mistake, and knowing that his life was in the hands of a drunken madman wasn't making Henry any calmer. "Eddie, I'll stay here - just - just put the gun away."

"You shitting your pants already? One small gun - and everyone can shit themselves. Don't you just love it?" Henry exhaled shakily, feeling his heart up in his throat. "You take a gun - you point it at someone - and the _whoooooole_ world - is willing to listen. Even a fucking smartass like you. All these big tough guys with all their money and power." Eddie tutted and shook his head. "You're sweating like a pig. You don't trust me?"

"I do."

"I hate blood," he said curtly, pulling his hand with the gun away. "Makes me sick."

Henry was finally able to breathe in and out, though the lump in his throat stayed there. Eddie's eyes were still filled with a deranged obsession with guns and power but his hand with the gun hung down.

"I haven't heard a single _please_ outta your goddamn mouth," Eddie said, watching Henry closely.

Henry clenched his teeth. "I'm not one for begging."

Eddie smirked, raised his hand with the gun again, and tapped Henry's chest with it. "I like that."

His face looked haggard with the glassy eyes and alcohol odor everywhere around. Henry had to keep a stern unchanged face. He still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that this man was making the business work and running Falcone's rackets. _And_ he _hated_ blood. Was Falcone blinded by his own loyalty to an old friend? Eddie had to be viewed as a liability if this was his regular night out.

Eddie placed the gun on the countertop. "You staying then?" He immediately reached for the bottle again.

"Yeah." Henry politely refused another drink and watched Eddie pour more of the whiskey in his own glass. He wasn't really feeling all that well, although he didn't drink half as much as Eddie; his mind wasn't fresh enough for any real work now. He still could at least take a good around when Eddie falls asleep. Considering he originally thought he would need to spend weeks trying to get inside this house, this was a success.

He had no idea it would be this easy.


	2. 28. 7. 1951

After about half an hour of lewd vulgarities and unfunny jokes that often finished midway since Eddie seemed to be losing track of his thoughts gradually, he finally fell asleep on the couch. Henry sat still for a couple of minutes more, listening to Scarpa's shallow breathing that soon turned into snoring. It was just then that he dared to take a deep breath and get up. He walked slowly, carefully making each step as quiet as possible. The only job for him to do now was to figure out the layout of the house and pay attention to anything that could come in handy one day. He didn't find anything interesting or worthy of further inspection in any of the rooms, except for what appeared to be the office; on the contrary, the office seemed to be a goldmine of papers and documents that could eventually shed some light on Falcone's businesses. Henry's quick search through some of the papers scattered around the desk was disappointing; most of it seemed to be perfectly fine legal documents and contracts. It would be stupid from Scarpa to leave anything incriminating just lying around at his house anyway. Henry quickly put the inspected papers back where he took them and instead looked for possible gun hiding places. If nothing else, a good old police search warrant was always an option; and drugs could be easily smuggled into those hiding spaces.

 _So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you_. _Matthew 7:12_. It was an irony. Search warrants were one of the reasons he was where he was; and Eddie Scarpa had nothing to do with it. He's learned a couple of things from his own experience with search warrants. Anything could be smuggled anywhere, and anyone could be framed and accused of crimes based on false evidence, and so little could be done about that. Scarpa would be a perfect victim for a frameup; a man living alone, without a family to support or back him. Illegal arms and ammunition or a couple of packages of dope would do the trick. The real deal was still the connections and participation in the drug trade, the disappearing of one federal agent, and a couple of suspected killings at the hands of the members of the Falcone family. Tomasino didn't have a list but he knew that as long as he's able to provide _some_ evidence, his family is safe.

He sighed, looking around the office. There were no family portraits, no photos of loved ones, nothing of that kind. He was used to family portraits all around Don Clemente's office, and even Gurino used to have a photo of him and his wife standing on the desk; damn it, even Joe had a portrait of his girl on a shelf in his apartment. Did Eddie even exist outside of this kind of family?

He settled to sleep on the other couch in the spacious living room. Eddie slept with his mouth open, snoring every few seconds. Henry smirked - _If only the fuckers from the federal bureau knew how laughable all the men they were chasing after actually were_. _That would have to make them feel ashamed. There must have been a couple of them having a sleepless night on patrol around the city; watching the doors of Falcone's mansion or The Maltese Falcone or, who knows, the house of Eddie Scarpa from their cars - and the wiseguys slept like babies._ He tried to remember whether there was any car following them from the Garden of Eden. The thought made him get up again and walk over to the window. None of the cars on the street looked suspicious, they were all parked in the driveways of the other houses where they probably belonged. Surely he would have noticed another car tailgating them on the way, he never let his guard down while driving. 

The view of the peaceful suburbian Calvin Street in early morning hours eased his mind and he returned back to his sleeping spot on the couch. He would prefer his own bed back home but it was late and he felt like staying overnight might be appreciated by Eddie in the morning since he insisted on him staying anyway. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the horrendous snoring that was just as loudly obnoxious as Eddie's drunken voice echoing around the room.

* * *

He woke up to the sound of radio news coming from another room and cursing, which was located much closer. Eddie was sitting on the couch he'd slept on with a wet handkerchief stuck to his forehead, and he was fiddling with something in his hands; judging by his curses, not very skillfully. Henry sat up, rubbing his eyes.

" 'morning," he said, trying to suppress a yawn. He could still feel the bitter taste of whiskey on his tongue but at least he felt rested. Eddie didn't seem to be so lucky, he still looked pasty-faced and worn out after a rough night, and he was messing about with a lighter as he was trying to lit a cigarette hanging from his lips.

Edde mumbled something in return, unable to focus on anything else than his fingers clamming the lighter. Only after he managed to lit the cigarette and have his first puff, he threw the lighter on the coffee table in between the two couches, right next to his Smith & Wesson revolver. 

"They talked 'bout you in the news," he said before taking another puff.

Henry's heart skipped a beat. He immediately thought about the revolver on the table. Has it been there when he fell asleep? Or did Eddie just placed it there now, as a warning? What could he hear from the radio?

"The arson attack yesterday. Galante's house."

"Oh." His insides felt tight. How could they know who was responsible - 

"They just talked 'bout the fire." He parodied the voice of the professional newsreader. " _No bodies were recovered from the mansion that has been completely destroyed in what appears to be a cruel arson attack. We ask any possible witnesses to contact the local police authorities to report any suspects in this horrendous act of violence - "_

He felt like the weight of the world fell from his shoulders. "So they don't know anything."

Eddie smirked. "Clueless as usual. Good job." He nodded towards the revolver on the table. "Have I shot anyone yesterday or what?"

The absolute oblivion of the question as if this was just a regular everyday routine sent shivers down Henry's spine. A killing, carrying out a contract, and doing their job was one thing but casually forgetting a murder looked to him as a new low.

"No."

"Then why the hell is it just lying around here." He grabbed the revolver and hid it in the holster on his hip. "I'll need you to go with me to the Maltese Falcon now." He peeled the damp handkerchief off his forehead.

Has he become a personal bodyguard of his now? "I thought I'd go home - " Henry tried to protest.

"Not now," retorted Eddie, standing up. "We're going to the Falcon." He disappeared in the kitchen just as Henry's attention was captured by the voice coming from the radio. " _The brave firemen of the Empire Bay Fire Department had battled the malicious flames for more than two hours. We are once again asking our listeners to contact the police should they have any information or suspicions about yesterday's attack on the home of one of Empire Bay's most generous entrepreneurs."_

Eddie came back with the leftover bottle of whiskey and some two pills in his hand. "See?" His pleased smile still looked tired as he was probably still tortured by a headache. He swallowed the pills and washed them down with a few gulps of whiskey. "You're driving, Henry. My head's about to fucking explode."

Henry bit his lip, stopping himself from saying anything about irresponsible drinking, and nodded.

"I need a piss first - get your ass up and get ready. I'll be here in a second."

Henry had just enough time to wash his face in the kitchen sink and have a glass of water which he used mostly for trying to rinse his mouth and get rid of the prevailing taste of whiskey. He tried to smooth out his shirt as much as possible, adjusted the red tie, and buttoned up his blazer so he would look at least representable. Eddie came back wearing a new light blue shirt and trying to tie his tie. "This fucking motherfucker - I can never get it right - "

 _Who was tying his ties every day_? Henry wondered as he watched his struggle. Or was he really just so painfully hungover that he couldn't focus on anything for more than two or three seconds?

"Let's go!" Scarpa barked, noticeably nervous. He turned off the radio and walked towards the door, still trying to make a knot on his tie. Henry walked behind him in silence. When they came to the garage and Henry waited for Eddie to hand him the car keys, he noticed the miserable excuse for a tie that was now hanging around Eddie's neck. Henry liked things done properly, with at least basic care and understanding. "Come here," he said calmly, not waiting for a response. He grabbed the loose knot of the tie and undid it, handily dealing with both ends of the tie, taking the wide end over and under the narrow end, pulling the loop down and tightening it. "Well?" He finished the procedure and stepped away without waiting for any _thank you_.

Eddie took his time with a reaction. "You're doing really good," he admitted before getting in the car. "You wanna stop somewhere for breakfast?"

"What breakfast? A hot dog for the road?" Henry answered skeptically.

"Sorry, I forgot you were born with a damn silver spoon in your fucking mouth."

Henry had to smile. Eddie looked like one of those people who were so easily irritable but at the same time rarely ever meant things they said. He also looked like one of the guys who were always on the go although they had in fact very little to do; they just never seemed to have time to sleep or eat properly. He wouldn't be surprised if Eddie only lived on alcohol, cigarettes, coffee, and the occasional sandwich; since he seemed to be incapable of functioning as a normal person. 

"No, I'm good. I'll just need a coffee."

"Yeah, me too. We'll get them at the Falcone. I need to call some people - " Eddie rubbed the bridge of his nose, frowning. "I might need to go to Miami - "

Henry tried to not look too eager. "Miami? What for?"

"Just some business - I'll need someone to go with me anyway. Jesus, I hate flying - "

 _Blood, his own house, the neighborhood that it was built in, flying_ \- Henry glanced at Eddie. That man seemed to hate _everything_. He's never seen anyone with such a negative outlook on life, especially when he took into consideration Scarpa's suspected wealth and powerful position. He could understand why someone who works for peanuts and gets home exhausted from twelve-hour shifts would hate everything about life, but Eddie seemed to have it all and still be unable to get any joy out of it. Joey seemed to be pretty content with his life, except for the occasional fuck-ups, but that was just part of their lifestyle. And Vito was one of the guys who were glad to have escaped the poverty and misery their parents used to live in. What was Eddie Scarpa getting from this life? He surely had to enjoy the spending sprees and the attention given to him thanks to his power but he didn't look content or happy with his duties. 

"You could go with me, Henry."

Henry's brain was working at the speed of light. Was this just a cover-up? He surely didn't want to leave the city. Why would Eddie want him specifically to go? Couldn't Vito and Joe or anyone else do the job? He hasn't even been introduced to the other people working for Eddie - And what about his mission? He wouldn't be able to give reports from Miami unless he would try to get away from Eddie, but how would that be possible if he'd want to have him by his side the whole time?

"I - I should stay here - "

"You're going with me, end of the conversation."

"Why me?"

"So you can keep asking these stupid questions." Eddie was still rubbing the base of his nose, covering his eyes from the sunlight.

Henry started to make a list in his mind, of things he had to get done and things he needed to think about. Miami? Had this something to do with the drug trade? Would his presence really mean anything? Was this another unexpected opportunity or just a way to get him away and get rid of him? When was this supposed to take place? Would he have enough time to explain this to his contacts? 

"When?"

"I don't know... Sometime next week probably." Eddie rubbed his forehead. "So you're going?"

"Well, you told me to - "

"Good."

* * *

Later that day, Henry walked into the Empire Diner bistro in Southport at the time given to him by Mr. Thompson, the guy he spoke to on the phone. He ordered a coffee with sugar and a ham sandwich; the first meal of the day. He spent most of the morning with Eddie, trying to remember the names and locations he mentioned in casual conversations, but most of the time just sitting at the same table with him, waiting for him to finish his phone calls and say something of a substance. 

He got his cup of coffee and a sandwich and spotted Thompson in the booth the furthest away from the entrance. 

"How are you, Henry?" Thompson asked, standing up and reaching out to shake his hand. Henry placed his cup and plate down and accepted the hand in a firm yet respectless handshake.

"I'll probably need to go away for a few days."

" _Away_?" The agent smirked, possibly not understanding what Henry meant by that.

"He wants me to go to Miami with him."

"Oh, great."

"What if he kills me there?" Henry spat out, trying to keep his voice down. "What about my family?"

"Your family will be just fine. Don't worry about them."

"Stop bothering them then."

"We're just doing our job, Henry. And we hope you can do the same for us."

"My family has nothing to do with this. Leave them out of it."

"That all depends on the things you can tell us."

Henry clenched his fist. He hated the smug look on Thomspon's face. He hated how in power and important he must have felt when talking to him.

"So? How's Mr. Scarpa?"

Henry took a sip of his coffee. "Alright."

" _And_?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"You know what you're there for, Henry."

"It's been one _fucking_ day. I don't know anything you don't know already."

"What about the attack on Galante yesterday?"

Henry grabbed his sandwich and took a big bite, savoring the food he's been missing all day. Eddie didn't seem to be a good companion if he wanted to keep a healthy balance and daily program.

"You don't know anything about that?" Thompson continued.

Henry shook his head.

"We have a few reasons to think Falcone might be behind all that."

Henry shrugged, taking a few more bites of the sandwich. 

"Well, if you learn something about that, you know how to contact us," Thompson concluded. "And for your little trip to Miami - well done. I knew you would be the perfect companion for Scarpa. You're almost the same age. Well - he's three years older - but that's still pretty close, don't you think?"

Henry shrugged again. 

"He's a loner as well. The only difference I see - " The agent smiled in a cruel, perverted way. " - is that he has nobody to care for. And nobody to care for him. You know? No family of his own - Unlike you. _Family_ \- It just adds to our problems, doesn't it, Henry? It's so irresponsible and irrelevant to put your family's needs before your own. Am I right, Henry?"

Henry put the sandwich down and wiped his greasy fingers with a precision that was induced more by his anger than cleanliness. "You fuckers don't give a fuck about my family, so keep out of it," he spoke with forced calmness though he knew his eyes must have been burning a hole through Thompson. "If I hear one more time that you threatened my brothers I won't ever speak to you again."

"Henry, Henry - you still don't understand. We're trying to help you. You're the one ruining the chances of a peaceful life for your brothers. If you're not careful, they'll all be going back to Sicily on the first ship that sets from Empire Bay. And Osvaldo - well, that would be - how much? - ten years? Ten or twelve years in prison? And Salvatore, your youngest brother, the little one - seven, eight years? Covering up for murder - " Agent Thompson tutted. "That's no good for a bright young boy like him."

"You _fucks_ ," Henry hissed.

Thompson just raised his eyebrows. "Good luck in Miami, Henry. Get us some information, for the good of us all."


	3. 5. 8. 1951

"If anyone asks," Eddie said, lighting a cigarette, "I'm _Emidio Visconte_. Understood?" He threw the lighter on the table next to his glass and the newspaper he bought just to look even more like a traveling businessman and never even bothered to open. 

Henry nodded. He's felt uneasy about the flight since he was told about it and Eddie's repeatedly declared hate for flying wasn't exactly helping. He worried about other things than the flight alone, and yesterday, he made a call to his brother Osvaldo from the telephone boot outside his house, just to tell him he's going away for a few days. "If they come, don't let the motherfuckers inside your house unless they show you some permissions," he instructed him once again, knowing how little could actually be done to prevent that. "And don't tell them anything." He knew he could count on that, though it might have been a bit too late. He just didn't want anything to happen while he's away and inevitably cut off of all information regarding his family. While talking on the phone, he noticed a man hanging around a car parked on the street without anything obvious to do, and when he left the booth and walked back home up the street, the man followed him. His mind, weary of the worrying and long days, started to rush again. _Who is he? What does he want?_ He toyed with the idea of turning around and confronting him right on the street where nobody following him would probably want a public scene - instead, he just passed his own house and continued walking up the street; when he looked over his shoulder, the man was gone.

Maybe he was just getting paranoid.

He didn't sleep well and when he arrived at The Maltese Falcon in the morning, he ordered a strong black coffee as soon as he walked into the door. Eddie Scarpa looked as if he had a rough night too, although he decided to cure his insomnia with a stronger liquor.

"Ah, my traveling business partner is here," he joked, gesturing to Henry to sit down, with a cigarette between his fingers as always. "So, how are you feeling?"

"Tired," he shrugged, showing Eddie his cup of coffee. 

"I'll give you something to wake you up - Hey, Jack, bring a glass for Mr. Tomasino over here!"

"No, Eddie - I shouldn't - "

"Or something stronger?"

Henry shook his head. _Jesus Christ_ , if whiskey at 9 AM was Scarpa's way of battling fatigue, what did he consider to be _stronger_?

"No, really - I'm good with my coffee."

"Alright." The bartender brought a glass of whiskey anyway, and Eddie moved the glass possessively closer to himself. "This one's on your health. _Salute. Alla tua_!"

" _Salute_ ," Henry raised his cup politely.

Eddie gulped a generous amount of the drink, having now two half-empty glasses of whiskey in front of him. "Did you come here in your car?"

"Yes."

"Good. You're driving then. My hands are fucking shaking. _Jesus, I hate flying_."

Henry tried to hide his smile by quickly taking a sip of his coffee but Eddie spotted it.

"What are you grinning for?"

"I've never been on a plane before."

"Good for you. Flying is like....being drunk. You can't feel the solid ground under your feet and it just doesn't get better when you throw up." Eddie finished one of his drinks and gave Henry the grave information - _if anyone asks, I'm Emidio Visconte_. "I'll make some calls and be here in a minute."

Henry nodded and watched him walk slowly to the bar and asking for the bartender, Jack Olivero, to use the telephone. He took up the newspaper and opened it on a random page; his mind was focused on hearing what Eddie has to say and to whom. He couldn't hear properly though, and the fragments of the call he caught weren't enough to paint the whole picture. He turned the page and remained attentive to what Eddie had to say. It wasn't much. He could as well be calling his broad from that brothel. Then he made another call, and Henry heard the name ' _Tony'_ mentioned. " _Tony? Yeah, morning, Tony. You know what to do, right?.... Yeah, yeah.... I'll call you later.... Yeah, on holiday.... I wish, you motherfucker_!" He laughed. " _Okay. I need to go. Don't fuck it up, Ton'.... Yeah. Bye._ "

Henry waited for him to come back to their table before he folded the newspaper and looked up. "Can we go now?"

"Give me a moment - " Eddie finished off his other drink, hid the lighter in his pocket, and grabbed his newspapers along with a coat and a hat that was placed on the other chair the whole time.

He looked _representable_ , like an actual traveling businessman, and if Henry didn't know him, he would fall for that image. He followed him out of the bar and to his car.

"What's that?" Eddie asked, pointing towards the brown suitcase on the back seat. "You're moving your armory with you?"

In fact, Henry was quite surprised that Eddie didn't seem to have any kind of luggage with him. "We're going away for five days, I thought it would be a good idea to bring a few...things." _How did Eddie not care about that_? "Clothes and stuff."

Eddie patted his back, laughing. "They'll give you everything there, don't worry."

As much cheerful as it sounded, Henry couldn't help but wonder whether there was any dark meaning behind the words. 

"Do you have a gun?" The serious question was in sharp contrast to Eddie's previous jovial tone.

"Just a colt - "

"Good, that's all you need."

* * *

Eddie carried on with his drinking at the bar in the departure lounge at the airport. Henry politely accepted one glass with him and then went back to reading the newspapers, this time actually focusing on the articles and their subjects. Eddie joined him with a glass in his hand and a flushed face after a few minutes of being left alone at the bar.

"The bartender's from Illinois," he declared, sitting down in the comfortable armchair next to Henry's as if that was an explanation for his alcohol consumption. "Good guy."

"Is it a good idea?" Henry asked skeptically, not even having to point out the drink in Eddie's hand for him to understand.

"I'll feel sick either way. Might as well just blank it out." He took a sip. " _Pan-American_ ," he said with a sneer as if it was an insult, looking at the large poster for the airline company decorating the lounge. "I wish I could just get knocked out here and wake up in Miami."

"You can sleep."

Eddie smirked. "I like you. You got a brain on you." He took the glass in his left hand and reached for his pack of cigarettes. "But I can never fall asleep."

Henry gave up any further attempts to explain that maybe - just maybe - his lifestyle and the constant smoking and drinking weren't probably helping. "It's not a long flight," he said sensibly, partly to Eddie and partly to himself. His own unease wasn't any better but he wasn't giving it away in the way that Eddie was.

"How can you be so fucking calm?" Eddie shook his head as he lit the cigarette. "You said you've never flown."

"I don't think about it. On the board, I'll just say one _Hail Mary_ , and, well, what more can a person do?"

"Does it help?"

Henry shrugged. "I'd like to think so."

"Jesus, I haven't prayed since - " He couldn't even remember or was fairly embarrassed by how long it had been. "I don't even know."

Henry's been praying a lot lately, a lot more than he used to when all he could think about during a prayer or a confession was his own sinful life - now he was praying for others, for the innocent, for his family and their safety. He couldn't stand the thought of someone close to him and innocent being hurt because of _him_ and _his_ actions _again_. "It's the only thing you can really do in a situation like this."

"You never had to travel around the States for Clemente?"

Henry didn't expect _this_ turn in their conversation. "I'd rather not talk about _him_."

"He's dead. He doesn't give a fuck."

He wasn't sure if Eddie knew how much Clemente meant for him in the first months and years after coming to America; and even if he did, he wasn't sure whether he would even consider that to be a reason to not want to talk badly about him. Alberto Clemente might have been a crook, even by their standards, and Henry certainly never imagined a halo over his head, yet he still knew he was forever in his debt. Without Clemente's help, he might have never been naturalized in the United States, and even if he was, he would be working his ass off somewhere in the docks. Then again, maybe it would be better for him if he'd never come to the United States. Maybe he was supposed to die in Sicily back on that spring day in 1931 after all. It was him who should have been killed, not his wife - he knew that. They never intentionally killed women - unless they were the unwanted witnesses. Or unless they were sitting where their husband was supposed to sit. Bettina has never hurt anyone, never talked about anything she _must have known about_ , and never intended to - she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn't her fault that the Sicilians first acted and then thought, it wasn't her fault that almost every man in the town belonged to either side of the war that's been waged for years in that part of the island.

Now, looking back, it was hard for Henry to even process the term "wife". She _was_ his wife. He's a _widower_. They had been married for two months; and what's that - _two months_ \- in a lifetime? Sometimes he felt like the Enrico Tomasino who was married to Bettina Canavioso was actually buried alongside her - and Henry Tomasino who got out of the boat in New York was someone else. Clemente welcomed him in Empire Bay with open arms; assuring him of his commiseration and his friendship with Henry's father - how could he not feel grateful for all that this man had done for him?

"I've never worked outside of the city for him," he said, trying to sound calm.

"That's 'cos he was a small-time fucker."

Henry shrugged. _Yes_ , that was true, to a certain extent, but Alberto Clemente was much more to him. Eddie wouldn't understand; it was pointless trying to make him.

"I really miss the driving though," Eddie sighed. "Good old times. You would just drive wherever you needed. With a truck, you know - moving the crates, moving the merchandise. Now it's all this misery - " He grabbed his glass again, giving a toast towards his despised _Pan-American_ advertisement.

"The times have changed." Even with such plain words, Henry could hear the emotion in his voice. _Jesus Christ, he must forget all about Bettina and his homeland and coming to America and Clemente._ This was not the time nor place for reviving his old memories. "Are _we_ going to be moving some _merchandise_ there?" he asked casually, putting down the newspapers without looking at Eddie.

It took Eddie a while to respond, partly because of the smoking and party - as Henry could imagine - because could be a bit too daring of him to ask such questions. "No," he then said and tapped some ash off his cigarette onto the ashtray. "We're just visiting."

* * *

Eddie was still sensible enough to not get wasted before the boarding. He smoked a couple of cigarettes more before they got out of the lounge. Henry was just thankful he didn't have to drag him to the plane or excuse his behavior to other passengers on the plane. As a matter of fact, Eddie was jovial and friendly, and, what surprised Henry more, he didn't even utter any inappropriate words about the flight attendants nor any females on the plane. Henry has already taken notice that unless Eddie was blind drunk or his mood was bad, he could be charming and very generous towards anyone providing any type of service. Henry's seen him give outrageous tips to bartenders and gas station attendants. Eddie on one occasion mentioned something about appreciating an honest worker because of his parents but didn't elaborate on that. Now he was all tipsy and courteous with a dimly numb smile on his flushed face as he greeted every other passenger in the nearby seats. 

Henry felt much calmer now when Eddie wasn't talking about his hate for flying. He placed his luggage in the overhead bin and took his seat, sighing out with relief. He closed his eyes and sat calmly for no longer than two minutes with hands clasped in his lap as he silently moved his lips in what he considered an appropriate prayer for safe travel. When he opened his eyes again and crossed himself, he noticed Eddie glaring at him.

"You really believe that shit?" Eddie asked but there was no disgust in his voice. He was genuinely curious; his green eyes 

"Yes." What else could he say? He prayed, he gave a lot of money to his local church, he read in The Bible occasionally, he crossed himself when he felt the need, and he was always there when the Sunday morning mass started - he genuinely _wanted_ to believe. Without his faith, what else could he hang onto after the terrible things brought onto him - and the things he brought onto others?

"So you prayed for a safe travel?"

"Well, yes."

"Can you do one for me? Will that work?"

The complete naivité or genuine lack of any real knowledge of the catechism reminded Henry of how his brothers would speak and think of God when they were little, six or seven years old. They would always go to church on Sundays, and some of his brothers' questions were just as silly as Eddie Scarpa's. _Is God so important that we have to wear our shirts and ties when we go to church_? _If he's everywhere, why do we go to church?_ Well, his brother were children and they only knew the Bible from what their mother - _bless her_ \- would tell them stories about God and miracles and Jesus and the Virgin Mary instead of a bedtime story. 

"It doesn't really work like that. You don't wait in line to get a piece of paper with a stamped 'approved' sign after you say a prayer."

"That's why I stopped doing that. Guess the old man upstairs is too busy to look after me."

"If you talk like that - "

"Hey, I didn't take you with me to preach about your truths of life."

Henry smiled apologetically, clasped his hands again, and repeated his previous quiet prayer, only this time replacing the selfish " _me_ " with a noble " _him_ ". Then he looked at Eddie who didn't seem to be any more convinced than before.

"What happens now?"

"Now you sit back and remain silent. And when we land, you say a little ' _Thank you_.'"

"To you?"

"To _Him_."

"It's quite boring being a catholic, isn't it?"

Henry shrugged. After all, it wasn't his job to try and turn Scarpa into a devoutly religious man. He could see why he - or Joe, Vito, or anyone else from their business - would laugh at overly religious traditions and practices of others. Maybe it was the fact that he grew up and lived a significant part of his life back in the old country, and without a doubt, a childhood spent in a village in Sicily had to be considerably different from growing up in a slum in Chicago or Empire Bay. Maybe the other guys knew life better than him, and they all had their reasons to stop going to church or praying at all. Maybe he was just holding onto the small rituals that were the only thing giving him hope and keeping his memories of homeland alive. The others might have been led astray but perhaps he was just imagining his own righteousness. "It's not for me to say."

Eddie leaned back in his seat. " _Jesus_ , stop being so tight-lipped."

"I don't talk when there's nothing to be said."

Eddie let out a frustrated sigh. 

Henry switched to a more comfortable position, crossing his legs. He wasn't sure whether his answer was sufficient but he wasn't in a mood for Eddie's tantrum. He's had so much to think about.

"I hope you didn't fuck up your prayers," Eddie mumbled. "I don't mean to die in here."


End file.
